


Remixed Roulette

by sentenza



Category: Gomorra - La Serie | Gomorrah (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Alternative Timeline, Anal Sex, Bad Bulgarian, Bad English too probably, Bad Spanish, Brutal Murder, Bulgarian Mafia, Camorra, Canon-Typical Violence, Extremely Dubious Consent, Intercrural Sex, Italian Mafia, Italian to English, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Naples, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Russian Mafia, Slash, Spanking, Substance Abuse, Translated by the original author, Translation, What-If, barcelona, sex under the influence, slight M/M/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-02-04 20:17:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18611773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sentenza/pseuds/sentenza
Summary: Sixth episode of the first season. Donna Imma ignores her husband's orders and sends Ciro the Immortal to Spain to negotiate a ceasefire with Salvatore Conte or die trying. In Barcelona he will have to broker a deal with a local head of theOrganizacija, meeting someone he was not supposed to meet, yet.





	1. Incipit

**Author's Note:**

> I just love ungrateful fucks getting some healty competition, don't you?

_Incipit_

 

 

When Eremenko takes out the gun, the only thing he wants to do is scream. He thought that he had already earned his name - his truest one, maybe – _Immortal_ , but it looks like he was wrong. And if he has to be completely honest, that name is starting to sound like a fucking joke, now.

The gun slides silently on the glass table toward him, so there's nothing left to do but pick it up ad press the barrel against his naked temple.

With a sudden heart-stopping bang the door slams open and a shower of Russian, mixed with a bastardized Spanish, pelts into the room, the gaggle of hookers and pimps from next door must have come to attend to his assisted suicide. And all of them seem to find it hysterically funny, judging by the ungodly racket they are making, yet Ciro's eyes are all for the trio of bullets still standing in front of him. Three chances to live still on the table and three chances to snuff it inside the drum. A total of six chances for a simple, deadly game. As soon as the light will turn back on he'll just have to pull the trigger, nothing more. Pretty easy.

Everyone is keeping their distance, no brains on my whore, thank you very much. Only one of them comes closer, the glass table top reflecting a sharp beak-like nose and a pair of wolfish eyes that cross Ciro's own, still lowered on the bullets.

Eremenko's hand reaches the switch and his gaze finally lift. The man now leaning against the _pakhan_ 's armchair is young, with probably several years less than him but definitely more power than Ciro ever had, if the way Eremenko smiles and signals him to get closer in anything to go by. There must have been a name in between all that barking, but it looks like the translator feels he has nothing to translate him, seeing his imminent demotion to carcass thrown in the wrong end of the Mediterranean.

The young man leans on the table and brings them face to face, eyes to eyes. The best seat to watch his brains spatter out of his temple.

He smiles at him, eyes like a wolf but teeth like a shark. At least Eremenko's swollen, porcine face won't be the last thing he'll ever saw. These Russians, such animals. Their staring contest stops only when the light turns off, filling the room in darkness and shouts of excitement.

The young man's eyes are the first thing he sees when the light is turned back on and the trigger clicks empty.

Their meagre audience explodes in a roar of alcoholic approval and the gaze of the man in front of him turns white hot, like iron straight from the furnace.

  
  


“Mladen says he wants to buy you a drink” translates the beaten up beanpole waiting at the table, while Mladen himself smiles at him, licking yellowed teeth with a pale tongue.

He is already crashing from his adrenaline high, making Ciro feel like his legs are made of jelly and his hands are crawling with hungry ants, and one of the two gorillas previously guarding the door as to help him to his feet and drag his ass in the next room, decked out with vodka, caviar and high end hookers. A wave of Mladen's hand and he his thrown on the cold sleekness of one of the leather sofas lining the walls, a glass filled by his host soon chilling his palm. He tells him something, “drink” probably, but Ciro hesitates, waiting for the night's next fuck up.

And it looks like he really is on the verge of fucking up yet again, if the irritation clouding his new admirer's expression is anything to go by. A whistle and one of the resident lovely ladies of the night – a voluptuous brunette squeezed in black lace – finds her way to his side, pressing herself to him from knee to shoulder. A brief exchange in Russian and some sly smiling and Ciro almost ends up with his new lady friend in his lap.

“You drink and _yo traduzco_.” she says in something that is just Spanish dressed up as Italian. But he would wager that she knows how to make herself understood when she wants to. No matter proper syntax and grammar.

  
  


He has always found neat vodka revolting, like drinking paint thinner, but even a glass of petrol would do, at this point. Now that the rush is over he feels on fire, euphoric. Mladen is still standing in front of him, legs wide and hands hanging from the hundreds euros belt he wears.

“He says that he likes you” smiles the whore, pressing a set of pure silicone tits against his arm.

Mladen nods to the sweating Beluga bottle on the fancy coffee table between them and the woman refills Ciro's glasses in the blink of an eye. He empties it in one gulp, setting his throat ablaze.

The hooker introduces herself as Viola, half Russian half Catalan, she loves diamonds and have fun and why don't you try this? She asks him, in her hand a glass of champagne and caviar, rimmed with coke like a Margarita would have salt.

The sofa moves with a sudden jolt and Mladen is sitting right next to him, now, a sinewy arm lying on top of the backrest reaching the woman's hair. Every time he loops a dark lock around his finger the warm skin of his forearm brushes the back of Ciro's neck, jumpstarting a shiver that runs the whole of his spine. He his not an idiot, he knows exactly what the other man is proposing with every careless touch of his skin, weightless but intentional, and were he to offer him to share a female for the night he would not be able to say no. Not tonight. Not after barely escaping certain death.

Deborah would understand.

Mladen keeps talking and Viola keeps translating. “He ask you if you like _bailar._ ” 

It turns out Mladen is not Russian, he is Bulgarian, filthy rich and he likes nightclubs. He likes them so much he own three of those, there in Barcelona.

  
  


He should count his blessing, wish everyone a good night and go back to his hotel room, but he has already survived Conte and Eremenko, what are Mladen and his whore compared to that? And to be completely honest he wants to go dancing, he has always liked it but it's not that fun when everyone knows who you are and you have a reputation to uphold. But there, in Spain, no one knows him and no one is interested in blowing his head off, be it for vengeance or vaunt.

A nod to the dummy guarding the entrance and their ride is promptly called, a limo, white and enormous, it smells of new upholstery and cologne worth three Cs per bottle. Despite being half a dozen, inside the car there's still plenty of space, and yet Ciro finds himself once again stuck between Mladen and Viola, the first's arm around his shoulders and the latter's hand on his knee.

It takes less than ten minutes for them to reach the club and less than one to get inside and have the powerful bass make his lungs vibrate in his chest.

He wants to dance, shout, live.

He is dragged in the middle of the group through the dance floor and in the middle of a forest made of sweating, excited flesh. He regrets not choosing a shirt instead of the t-shirt he is wearing, it's sweltering in there and he wouldn't have minded popping a couple of buttons to breath easier. Show some skin.

  
  


Everyone is revved up and all of them want to buy a drink to “ _ l'Italiano _ ”, he has lost count of the pats on the back and, oh! How he enjoys them after the icy hell that Donna Imma's reign has been. Mladen is back at his side, and Ciro watches him lighting up a cigarette, take a drag and then passing it to him, slipping the thing between is teeth with his own hand. The poor bastards that tries to tell them that here smoking is forbidden earns himself a bone crunching headbutt on the nose.

 

 

_ to be continued... _

 


	2. I

_I._

 

Ciro opened the door, having care not to show how much he would have wanted to slam it shut with all the strength he had and stepped out into the sun-flooded courtyard of house Savastano. He could not bear to stay inside that gaudy nightmare of a mausoleum a second more. That ungrateful self-absorbed asshole! Who did he think he was?

 

He had hope that after his plan to put in office that retard Casillo had succeeded, showing everyone that Gennaro could put together a plan and actually see it to completion on his own, that he would have seen reason and backtracked. Instead, he had called him there just to order him around like a dog. Genny Savastano really wanted to force his hand, then, he thought slipping his fingers in the pocket of his jacket to trace the ribs and grooves of the Triumph key.

 

The two of them together, Ciro knew that they could have eaten the whole city right up. He _knew_ that. If only that fucking harpy of his mother had not interfered, sending him to Spain to get bodied and her only son to get brain-washed in South America! Didn't donna Imma understand that he was the best chance his son had to stay in power, now that the old man had been thrown in the slammer?

True, his long term plan had always been to lead through Gennaro, pull the strings from the shadows, but wasn't this the best assurance that he had no bad intentions towards him? Quite the opposite, in fact. Why put your own head on the chopping block when you can put someone else's?

 

He took a deep breath, smelling dust and sunshine, and fished a cigarette from the inside of his brown leather to relax. Letting through how pissed he was wasn't a smart move between those four whitewashed walls, swarming with men eager to show off in front of the new boss. He had pulled no more than a couple of drags, when he heard movement coming from beyond the Savastano's front door. The idea of having to set his eyes on Gennaro's face for a second time that day made his stomach turn, pushing him toward Rosario, patiently waiting for him at the back of the courtyard, chatting away in the shade of a sickly looking palm with a couple of guards.

 

\- Ciro! Mr. Ciro, excuse me. -

It took him a second too long to turn around, long enough to unclench the muscles in his jaw and let some of the blood making his temples pulse flow out.

\- Tonino - Ciro said, his lips stretched in a forced grimace of congeniality. - How's it going? All well, I hope? -

\- Of course, of course- answered the middle aged man, handing out to him a sweaty palm and adding: - We are all happy with how things have been arranged. Don Salvatore especially, he is very satisfied. -

\- I'm glad. Bring him my regards. - replied Ciro, returning the hand shake and trying to make it as brief as possible while still keeping it this side of polite. He could see the door behind Russo open letting out Cardillo and Capa, Genny right after them with one arm securely wound around the neck of a distinctively red-faced Trak.

 

He was more than ready to up leave, had not the other man still had his hand clutched in a clammy vice-grip, unknowingly winning the first prize in the little lottery of death Ciro had held in his head since meeting young, naïve Danielino.

\- There would be one last thing, if you don't mind. -

Russo let him go, stuck his hand inside the breast of his boringly beige jacket and pulled out a slim, dark case. Flat and polished, it must not have been longer than his palm and finger, estimated Ciro watching the late morning sun glint off the lavished mahogany surface. He did not reach out immediately, prompting the man to move the proffered thing with more vigor towards him.

\- From Mr. Mladen. -

Ciro felt his face drain of color and the hand he had extended to take the box trembled for a second, barely anything, really, but he knew he had not been the only one to notice that. Those four little idiots were too silent, it wasn't a good sign when they were not spewing horseshit.

 

 

 

Gennaro watched him clear his throat like a hawk, his eyes still fixed on the box Ciro was now holding in his own hands. The “thank you” he directed to Russo was more spat out than said and yet the other man did not seem offended. Quite the opposite. He almost looked smug.

What the fuck was going on, here?

 

If he had been mildly pissed off because of that retarded asshole 'o Trak before, now he was downright furious. Ciro was ambitious and dissatisfied and Conte was a treacherous son of a bitch. A winning combination.

Not for him, though.

Suddenly everyone's focus seemed to gravitate to that insignificant, little case that Ciro, apparently, had no intention of opening. True, he could have ordered him open it there and then in front of everyone, but in the spirit of the new and improved Genny Savastano, he chose to play it smart. It was not the time to risk offending that dickwad Conte. Not now, at least.

 

Ciro didn't even put the thing in his pocket. He said goodbye with a terse nod and just left, his arm long and rigid at his side, like he was trying to keep that box as fare away from him as possible. Hasty and stiff he moved towards the exit to the courtyard where 'o Nano had stood waiting for him just seconds ago before sprinting away, with his tail tucked between his legs, to get their car and placate yet another one of Ciro's prima donna tantrums.

 

A nod of his head was all Genny needed to put one of the men crowding the yard hot on their heels.

 

 

///

 

 

An Omega worth almost 50,000 euros wasn't exactly what Genny had expected.

When he had seen that box he had thought about some compromising papers, bullets, an ear or a couple of chopped off fingers, something that would have portended some kind of nefarious plot against him. All he had got instead was a harmless, expensive trinket.

There had been no need to tell the guy he had had tail Ciro to retrieve the thing and this admirable spirit of enterprise had earned the guy 300 euros and a job for the brother he had just welcomed home from Poggioreale. Gennaro needed trustworthy people with some functioning brain now more than ever, now that the whole thing was starting to smell yesterday's tuna carpaccio.

He knew Ciro, and he knew he liked fancy baubles and even though he personally found the thing quite horrendous, he was sure his old friend would not have minded parading the thing around the neighborhood for a couple of weeks, vain as a woman as he was.

 

Anyway, _Mladen_... What kind of name was that? Spanish? Some type of codename or alias? Gennaro thought broodingly leaning heavily against the damask backrest of his father's armchair. He listlessly turned the open box in his hand, looking the golden light of the sunset flicker like a burning car in the smooth sapphire of the watch dial. Useless piece of crap.

With a grunt and a sharp snap of the wrist he sent the still open case flying. But a wristwatch that cost like a station wagon and the velvet pillow it was resting on, were not the only things sent sailing in to the air, landing clattering on the polished surface of don Savastano's desk.

A micro SD, tiny and white, plinked merrily against the crystal ashtray at the other end of the wooden top a bounced to a halt at the paws of a golden leopard guarding the desktop edge.

 

 

_to be continued..._

 

 


	3. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware, descriptive sex of the Mladen/Ciro variety ahead.

_II._

 

Press play?

 

 ►

 

 For a moment the room trembles and shudders in the fog, then the phone camera focuses. Ciro is a few meters away, laying on a circular bed with sheets of a dirty carmine, his eyes are half-closed, his arms wide open and there is a man bent over him. He is attractive, with a noble profile, a ruthless smile and a horrendous ivory-colored turtleneck.

Outside the frame a woman laughs when the man slides his hands over Ciro's thighs up to his hips and continues with his sides, lifting the light t-shirt and letting it curl under his armpits. Now is Ciro's turn to laugh, with the man bending even more to make his aquiline nose slide from navel to sternum, which get kissed softly, a kindness that is not reserved for either of the two dark nipples, pinched by two pairs of ruthless incisors. Ciro has stopped laughing now, he gasps something and, with one hand, weakly tries to push away the chestnut head that's devouring his chest.  
  
\- Mladen says that if you let him then _tu te deverte_ as well, _amor_. - the shot trembles with laughter for a moment and even Mladen laughs.  
  
Ciro turns his head slowly towards the woman's voice and the camera phone, his words are slurred but understandable when he asks her what is she doing, if she is shooting a video. More laughter.  
  
The man, Mladen, slowly takes off his shirt. Yes, he is a very handsome man, pale perhaps, but with broad shoulders and a defined abdomen and that those muscles are not there just for show, it's easy to gather by how effortlessly he raises Ciro's hips to take off his pants. Now that he is no longer bent, standing at the edge of the bed, the erection pressed against the zipper of his trousers is more than evident, especially when a jeweled hand comes down to rub at it while he is staring at the dazed figure lying on the bed. Mladen looks at Ciro like someone with a gasoline can would look at a forest, how much wonderful building land under all these useless trees!  
  
He steps forward and as he undoes his pants, he spreads with a knee Ciro's legs dangling over the edge of the mattress. The woman says something, but it is neither in Italian nor in Spanish. She looks impatient and the man answers with an indulgent, amused tone.  
  
The phone shakes and momentarily frames the ceiling, made up of dark concrete and blue neons, then a noise, like a credit card on a glass pane and sniffles covers the rustling of the silky sheets. When the camera returns on the bed and the two men, Mladen is naked and lying on top of Ciro, devouring his neck while the other man runs slow and clumsy hands along his pale spine with a sigh. He moves with effort, like underwater, and Mladen seems to find it irritating, because he grabs his wrists and blocks them over his head, then drops a hand that pulls and tugs at Ciro's boxers until he literally tears them off of him.

Done that, the hand does not go far, it grabs the cock it has just released bringing it from half-mast to an almost complete erection with a couple of strokes, it goes down to grasp his balls and then down further, without mercy. Ciro complains with a strangled moan, even if drops of a clear liquid fall from his tip landing between dark curls but the more the hand works, the more his legs squirm and his teeth try to close on the aquiline nose in front of him. Ciro is not looking very cooperative, now.  
  
Mladen curses and then slaps Ciro harshly accross the face, the woman gets up bringing into view the rest of what looks like the most gaudy porn movie set ever seen. She approaches the bed and opens the drawer of one of the bedside tables, pulling out a purple plastic bottle and joins the couple on the bed to squirts a third of the lubricant on Ciro's thighs and Mladen's hand.  
  
\- _Tranquilo_ , he likes his pussy wet! -  
  
Now the hand works smoother between the thighs and the slick, wet sound of first one, then two, then three fingers being thrust in and out is almost covered by Ciro's groans and sighs of pleasure. Now that the woman has gotten nearer Ciro's moist eyes and enormous pupils appear evident and after a stroke of the hand still at his entrance more violent and purposeful than the previous one, he turns his head, pressing his sweaty face against the biceps forcibly extended by the grip that Mladen still has on his wrists.  
  
A hand with nails polished in lurid red goes down to caress his shaved head and the woman tells him in Spanish that she is a good girl and that Mladen is going to fuck him so good and thorough that he will have to make the flight back to Italy standing up.  
  
The "what?" coming out of Ciro's mouth is almost incomprehensible, mumbled as it is against the carmine satin bedspread, after the man between his thighs turned him over on his stomach. The red tipped hand seems to appreciate the change of scenery, because it goes down to pinch a buttock and to trace the sign of the tan line a couple of briefs. Now a man's hand enters the frame too, in a tangle of fingers sliding over skin made slick and shiny by lubricant.

Everything shudders and blurs, and when the image is back in focus it is clear that the phone must have changed hands, since now the woman has both head and hands in the shot together with a vigorous erection. Mladen grabs her hair with a sticky hand smeared in lube as she sucks at his cock and fiddles with something that she has taken from his pocket. He does not need to pull for long because the woman emerges with a cherry-colored smeared smile, revealing a condom that she slips on him with the speed with which other people put on their socks.  
  
The ticking of heels moving away is suddenly interrupted by the resounding slap that the hand not holding the phone lands on Ciro's ass, making him jump as if the blow had just startled him awake. Another blow, accompanied by a moan, paints the skin with a bright flush and when the hand rains down for the third time, the lash is such as to make the flesh tremble down to mid-thigh. The expletives in Neapolitan are barely audible under the heavy breathing of the man, but the noise of the naked heel connecting with Mladen's back, making him tip forward, isn't. A punch in the kidneys and something snarled in Russian, that probably sounds very close to "son of a bitch", is all that is needed to convince Ciro to play nice and cooperate. So when thumb, index and middle fingers return to reveal the dark and wet valley at the base of his spine, Ciro stays silent, even when the thighs of the man sitting on top of him flex, pressing the swollen flesh covered in blue latex against his stretched entrance.

 

The pace strats out slow and Mladen almost seems more worried about the quality of the shot than of actually fucking him. He starts to pick up speed only after having made him feel it hard and good for at least a dozen thrusts, then grabs him by the back of the neck and the cell phone rolls between the rumpled sheets leaving only the muffled noise of the headboard slamming against the wall, fabric rustling, the sound of hips slamming rhythmically against soft flesh and a broken voice that asks to slow down between one weak moan and the other.  
  
\- He is asking to you _si te duele_ , _amor_. -  
  
The phone goes back in the woman's hands and the dim light of the room looks like a sun after those interminable seconds of claustrophobic darkness. A sharp nail traces an equally sharp cheekbone, then slides down to press a full and cracked lower lip. - _Hermoso_ , ... Pretty. - she tells Ciro, who seems barely able to keep one eye open, showing the dark dept of an almost completely blown pupil. Then the eyelid closes and Ciro's mouth opens in a breathy groan spilling himself in the non-esistente space between his sweaty skin and the clingy material of satiny sheets. Still a half-dozen of violent thursts and Mladen too has his happy ending. He sags momentarily against Ciro's back, his breathing heavy and labored, then he props himself up with one corded arm and press the other against the top of the other man's spine, sliding on sweaty, cooling skin all the way down, to help himself get out from latex and foreign flesh all in one smooth movement.  
  
Mladen is already at the other end of the room, a glass of something in one hand and the fingers of the other one on a nostril, when the woman slips on the bed and on Ciro's damp and shivering body, reaches out a hand and, as the man had done before, she uses thumb, forefinger and middle finger to separate the buttocks and reveal the condom, used and obscene, that Mladen has left halfway inside.

 

 ❚❚

 

 The room was dark and silent now that the video was over, the sun now set for a while behind the plastered walls of the Savastano's courtyard and the moans and the sound of flesh against flesh vanished in the buzz of far away traffic. This probably was how the guy who had been sent the video of him chopping up that Yankee in Honduras had felt, thought Genny convulsively squeezing the armrests of the armchair he was sitting on in a white-knuckled grip. He barely noticed his arm shoot out, sending the laptop crashing into a display case full of Confirmations photos framed in silver and gaudy wedding favors. On the other hand, he felt fully aware and nauseated by his hand sliding down to fix the painfully cumbersome erection stretching his pants.

 

 

_to be continued..._

 


	4. III

_III._

 

Ciro had no time nor desire to attend the dinner organized for Conte's return to Naples. Especially after the attempt he had made to make some waves and rock the boat had gone to hell. He should not have entrusted such a task to a total rookie, someone who did not have a shred of experience on the field. After all the time and patience spent o naive Daniele all he had obtained had been a crippled Tonino Russo, the corpse of a sixteen year old to get rid of and a minusculy insignificant crack in the alliance he had built with his own sweat and blood and from which he was receiving nothing. Now it was going to take him weeks, months, even, to turn that hairline fracture into a tectonic fault that could swallow the Savastano's empire whole.  
  
At least Gennaro's goons had had the decency to show up in dress shirts, thought Ciro, looking sideways from behind the mirror of his designer sunglasses, at Track, Cardillo and Capa, all intent in sniggering like a bunch of pissants on their first field trip. In other circumstances they would never have been invited to a meeting of this caliber but showing up to this kind of events shor of staff was never a good idea and after what had happened with Russo, Genny had decided to do a bit of "cleaning" in the old guard ranks. Better Zecchinetta than him, he told himself. Truth be told, he had lost one of the most vocal opponents to Gennaro, but at least he would no longer have to look at that ugly mug ever again. Small consolations.  
  
He recognized immediately the young man exiting from the driver's side of the black SUV, Massimo, his driver during that infernal three days in Spain and the inspiration for his plan to get revenge on those responsible for Attilio's death and treated him like disposable trash. Ciro wondered if those dark bags under his eyes had anything to do with the fact that his little brother had been untraceable for almost four days, now.  
  
Don Salvatore Conte got out of the car with all the imposingness of his one meter and seventy centimeters and Ciro felt like dying of laughter. Everything, from his ponytail, to the emphysema voice, to the Gregorian chants he liked to listened to, made him a caricature of himself and a worthy opponent for an imbecile such as Gennaro Savastano. Two ridiculous puppets who had found themselves, he thought with a contemptuous half-smirk ignored by all the other guests, who had no eyes but for the newcomers. Then the SUV backdoore door opened too and suddenly it was not of laughter that Ciro wanted to die of, now.  
  
"What the fuck is he doing here?" he thought, thanking his good star for not having taken off his sunglasses yet, even though of the sun remained nothing but a blade of light above the waves crashing against the railing that separated the restaurant from the sea.

 

_///_

 

In the beginning he wasn't a hundred percent sure it was him, but when the big breasted bimbo in a dark smkimpy dress and cherry lips had gotten down from the car as well to join the guy, Gennaro had had no more doubts.  
  
Malev.  
  
Or Malden, or what the fuck was the name of the guy who had fucked the man in designer sunglasses and tailored jacket behind him, not even two months ago. He had to keep his eyes fixed on Conte and his rapidly approaching entourage, but he doubted he had been wrong when he saw Ciro stiffen from the corner of his eye. Not a good sign.  
  
\- Gennaro Savastano - said Conte, holding out a calloused hand and an even callouser smile, - Allow me to introduce you to my new business partner, Mladen. -

With a nod he pointed to the man a few steps behind him. - A new friend I made thanks to your invaluable Ciro di Marzio. -  
  
What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Is that what he went in Spain to do? Was that how he had "made peace"? Giving away his ass to half of Barcelona on behalf of that little asshole?  
  
\- ... and so I thought I'd take him with me. To show him the city. And also because, as of now, we need as many friends as possible ... Isn't that right, _Genny_? -  
  
That little, filthy, lousy, sarcastic sewer rat, thought Gennaro. He had no intention of shaking hands with that disgusting Russian! Just having to do that with Conte had made him want to wipe it clean against the butt of a Glock, he doubted he had enough restrain left not to try and break the newcomer's wrist. Especially if he and that broad, hanging on his arm, did not stop looking at Ciro like that. He wasn't jealous and sure as hell did not want to move a few feet between that pair of salivating sharks and the other man, no sir. It was just that they should have being paying attention to him. It was he calling the shots now, it was he with whom they had to reckon. 

The Immortal did not matter shit this days, they should have simply ignored him.  


 

_ /// _

 

That dinner could have well been considered some new kind of cruel and unusual punishment. Gennaro had been so pissed and nervous that he felt like he could have eaten the plate as well its content, had not that boorish Russian with his shirt open almost to his navel made him sick to his stomach. Almost as much as watching Ciro sitting in front of him, silent and impassive like a fucking sphinx, had done. His view was too angled to have an unobstructed view, with Malammore sitting on his right and Conte in front of him, but he was sure he had seen at least a couple of appreciative glances thrown at all that sunbed-toasted skin on display. What the fuck was he looking at? Never seen a duchebag, before?  
  
Suddenly he felt strangely aware of the belt pressing against his abdomen and his shirt that seemed to have gotten sensibly tighter and started to pull. He struggled to recognize the sensation as discomfort, he had not felt it for months and the temptation to start fidgeting on the chair as "a child that has to go to the toilet" according to his mother, was real. But that was no longer him, he had left the old, weak, awkward Gennaro Stavastano in that jungle, no reason to exhum his fat ass, so he forced himself to relax his shoulders, lean his elbows on the armrests to occupy as much space as possible and start fiddling with one of his rings, the only outlet he had deemed manly enough for himself. 

He had just to get used to it and make it look natural, he told himself. 

All this bullshit for that insignificant asshole, thought Gennaro, shifting his gaze from Conte to Tonino Russo, sitting next to his boss, with the face of a paid mourner at their own funeral and an idiotic cane. What the fuck was that, some retarded prop for an insurance fraud?  
  
He had no intention of telling these fuck-faces, but he was pretty sure that behind the attack on Russo there had been that hobknocker Zecchinetta. He had never liked the guy, same for that drag qeen-ish monstrosity of his sister, Scianel, mainly because they had never liked  _him_ in the first place. Too bad he had not been able to cancel this damn circus by saying that the problem had been solved by 'o Track with a gun and a bathtub a few days prior.  
  
They had been sitting at that table for three hours, by now, and while he seemed to be stuck on the boring side of the table, the rest of the guests had begun to loosen with the help of a dozen bottles of fine Greco di Tufo and the excited shouts of those couple of delinquents Track and Capa, stirred by alcohol and the lascivious coaxing of the woman he had discovered to be named Viola. Mpfh, what kind of a retard uses a hooker as an interpreter?  
  
He almost toppled the glass of still white on his pants when, beside him, Malammore gave a startled jerk in his chair.  
  
\- Oh!  _Perdoname_ ... I'm very sorry,  _señor_ . - said the woman with a breathless sigh, while caressing the stem of her glass. The roar of laughter that followed was like a round of slaps for Gennaro. 

It had taken him almost all of the dinner to convince himself that he had only dreamed that video, not that he dreamed of that kind of filth, obviously! Some kind of PTSD episode, then. 

Too bad that had been enough to make it all come back in his head, because despite what some people thought about him, Gennaro Savastano was not naive. He didn't need to look under the table to know what was happening, and that Malammore had just been a misfireing incident. The real target had been the man sitting next to his father's old soldier, now intent on clearing his throat behind a crumpled napkin.  
  
Perhaps it was just some kind of optic effect created by the dim amber lights, but Ciro's ears seemed to him have turned a brightly reddish shade. He almost cracked a tooth when he realized he had no prior recollection of having ever seen him blush. Son of a bitch!  
  
\- Gennaro - hissed Conte, almost apperaing like he was tasting the air for blood with his forked tongue,- You seem distracted. Is there something wrong? -  
  
\- No - ground out Gennaro swallowing down bile and rage, - No, everything's all right. - he concluded, shifting his gaze back on the impeccably groomed man in front of him. He leaned back in his chair, blocking his view of Ciro with the fat belly of Malammore who, having recovered from the attempted harassment, had started to stare at him like a hawk, ready to take note and report his every single mistake, that old treacherous bastard. Thank god his father was at 41-bis regime. Unfortunately, the same couldn't be said for his mother.  
  
\- Maybe we can go talk in a less crowded place. - Gennaro proposed. He was tired of feeling all that breathing down his neck.  
  
He got up without waiting for Conte's reply, the eyes of all the guests boring into him, and headed for the bar, a baroque jewel made of mirrors and dark wood embedded at the end of the hall. 

He would have preferred an Americano, or even a Gin Lemon, but he ordered a peated whiskey for himself, real man's stuff although it was like licking a fireplace, and nothing for don Salvatore, who apparently had quit drinking.  
  
Choosing to leave the room for the terrace, which had suddenly become deserted, had perhaps been the single worst mistake of the whole evening.

 

_ to be continued... _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greco di Tufo is a type of still white wine from Campania.  
> 41-bis is a very strict Italian prison regime usually reserved for mafiosi and their likes (Cosa Nostra, Camorra, 'Ndrangheta, Sacra Corona Unita...).  
> Yes, Viola was totally molesting Ciro under the table with her foot, I mean, who wouldn't??


	5. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do I need to tell you that they are a bunch of misogynistic, racist, violent fucks and that I don't share their views?
> 
> Thought so.
> 
> I don't share their views.

_IV._

 

 Fuck.  
  
Fuck! How could he have been so stupid? He and Conte had not stayed on the terrace for long, just enough for him to reassure don Salvatore that those who had tried to clap Russo didn't have anything to do with him and define some of the more minute details of their "commercial agreement". Forty minutes at the most, yet that had been more than enough for 'o Track to find someone to put on some completely inappropriate music for that kind of place and for Ciro to make his ass disappear somewhere.

When he noticed Viola all alone at the bar and not hanging from the elbow of some Eastern European slab of meat as she had done the entire evening, he literally saw red.  
  
In four strides Gennaro was beside her, one hand spread on the polished counter and the other gripping in a white-knuckled clutch the back of the revolving stool on which the Spanish call-girl was perched, calmly sipping a Martini.  
  
-Where da fuck is yo' master?- he asked without raising his voice, his accent made even more thick by anger and tightened jaw.  
  
\- _Como_ ?- asked the woman frowning coquettishly and twisting her red mouth, causing the little mole she had right above the corner of her upper lip to make a little jump that, he was sure, many a men would have found irresistible.  
  
\- _Dònde està tu dueño_?-

Well, two could play this game, some ineteresting tid-bits about anathomy and meat processing weren't the only thing he had picked up during his Honduran holiday. And they say that crime doesn't pay, ah!  
  
- _Estàs loco_!- she hissed in his face like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on. Obviously she had not missed his choice of words.  
  
-Is there a problem?- Malammore's voice asked from behind him. It was clear that he was not gonna get any blood from this stone and drawing some from a whore's face wouldn't sort any effect, just increase the odds of the nice dress shirt he had choose for the occasion getting stained irreparably.

Gennaro was proud to say that he had learned when to stop barking up at the wrong tree before anything unsavory came down and, after all, there were not many places to look, he told himself turning his back at Viola and Malammore and storming off, their rising voices following him down the only corridor that led out of the hall, and getting more and more distant with every door he found, slammed open and abandoned when it revealed nothing.

Wardrobe, kitchen, men's restroom, women's restroom, staff's restroom, broom closet ... Nothing, all empty.

He was ready to punch the nearest wall when he noticed that the corridor did not end in a dead end, but after a L-turn it continued, unadorned and illuminated by cheap neons in a staircase, probably leading to a basement or a storage.  
  
And there they were, at the foot of the last step, pressed against the wall that divided two doors. They weren't doing anything, his brain noticed with relief, in fact they were not even touching, but Ciro's face, turned down, with his eyes to the floor to show his profile to the other man, was enough to make him lift his arm and grab the back of Mladen's collar, tearing him away and almost making him almost fly against the wall next to them.

Too bad he had regained his balance almost immediately, Gennaro would have liked to see that big schnoz dripping crimson and, why not, with some cartilage showing. It was always a nice addendum.  
  
Perhaps it had been arrogant of him, but Gennaro had been genuinely surprised when the other man had spun around and shoved him, with surprising strenght, against the wall barking something vicious in his own tongue. He was no longer used to the fact that someone could react and actually stand up to him.

And it was because of that alone that he ended up banging the back of his skull against the corner behind him, the fact that Ciro was looking at him with horror and had not even tried to come up with some kind of excuse for himself, had nothing to do with that.

He had just been taken by surprise, that's all.

Only the stomping of shoes running down the stairs and two pairs of hands grabbing his biceps prevented him from grabbing Mladen by the collar of his jacket and smashing his front teeth in with his forehead.  
  
-What's going on?-  
  
\- Have you lost your mind, man?-  
  
-Ohi, Genna'! The fuck did this asshole do?-

 

That bastard had to thank his lucky star that he was not bleeding, thought Gennaro as he ran a hand through the strip of hair at the back of his head, making sure that there was nothing except for a bump. Between him and Mladen there was now a wall of people, so many had arrived that in the small hallway now there was no more space and some had to stay gawking from the stairs.

He could feel the nervous energy from the group radiate and seep under his skin, making his hackles raise and hands tingle, heated blood calling heated blood, the vicious cycle interrupting only when he felt himself being grabbed by the elbow.

-Ohi, what the fuck is going on here?- asked an agitated Malammore. Gennaro didn't even answer him, just shrugged him off, keeping his eyes trained on Mladen's face, who was reciprocating without blinking.

It was incredible how the situation had changed so drastically in just a few minutes, from a baroque hall lit by tall windows and fancy chandeliers, to a dingy hole full of screams illuminated by greenish neon lights.

In short, from an elegant dinner to a dog fight.  
  
It didn't take long for Conte to show up and like the devotee he was, his presence was enough for him to open the sea of astonished faces crammed together on the stairs and walz in without problems.

 

-What is going on here? Mladen, is there something wrong?-

 

'O Track would not have minded exacerbating the situation, Gennaro could almost feel him vibrate next to him, ready to smash some Russian jawbone and bloody his knuckles, but his father's old general wasted no time. All a misunderstanding, an incomprehension, nothing worth jeopardising a million-euro deal over. Ciro didn't say a word but was swift to placed himself behind Malammore in tacit support, he knew that as long as the old soldier was with him, Genny could not confront him or accuse him of anything sordid. The reputation of the whole clan would have been compromised.  
  
Whether consensual or not, a sin was always a sin.

 

  _///_

 

 Ciro had no problems from Gennaro, he had expected an immediate attack, an outburst, accusations and insults of all kinds after the restaurant debacle and instead ... Nothing.

The other seemed perfectly happy to ignore his existence and even though the young boss had been barely paying him any kind of attention since he came back from South America, he had come to the point of not even looking at Ciro when he was speaking at the Savastano house meetings. He just sat on his father's armchair with the bored indolence of a lion who had just devoured an entire herd of zebras, but that a storm was boiling and bubbling just below his skin was plenty obvious to Ciro. He saw it in the way he blinked, in that particular manner he had, slow, one eyelid falling a fraction before the other as if it were encountering the resistance of some contracted muscle.

There! Right there, he was doing that again.  
  
-And the shit do I care about what that fucking Russian want?-  
  
-Genna', think about it- croaked 'O Baroncino, -That guy and that bastard Conte are chums now. It's better we have him on our side. After all, he just wants to come to the meeting with Branka, get some contact and, who knows- he continued, making a noise more akin to a death rattle than the laughter that it was supposed to be, -Maybe Russian to Russian they'll develop some nice undertanding, if you know what I mean, and who knows, we might even get some nice discount for us!-  
  
-Why the fuck would I care! If that asshole wants to find himself a bitch from his country to mount he can get his ass back to Moscow.- growled Gennaro, throwing the Montblanc he was fiddling with on the desk top in front of him.  
  
-He's not Russian, he is Bulgarian.-

Maybe he would have done better to keep his mouth shut, but at least, reasoned Ciro, that bravado had earned him a look, even if it was a dirty one.

It wasn't his fault, after all! He hated being ignored.  
  
-Russian, Bulgarian ... Same breed!- the old man continued with a vague gesture of his hand, -Fact is don Salvatore wants him to be happy.-  
  
Between the option of putting up with the presence of someone he hated and the one of passing for the idiotic brat everyone had always accused him of being, the choice for Gennaro was rather simple. And even though Ciro had certainly not been invited to the meeting, and Gennaro had wasted no time to point out who had been invited and who wasn't, the fact that Savastano junior had to suck that all up had brightened his day.  
  
Too bad that by evening, it seemed that what had been making everything so bright had turned out to be a fire in a petrochemical plant.

 

He had just arrived from the last of his dealing spots to turn over the hard earned proceeds of another pleasant day spent among the junkies and general low lifes of Naples suburbs, when Gennaro and the small band he had brought with him came tire screaming in the pakinglot of the dilapidated warehouse. It was not a good sign whenever Genny was the one behind the wheel.

He stepped out of the car like a fury and Ciro felt his hair stand on end when he saw him advance towards him, his face as dark as the leather jacket he was wearing.  
  
But the fist to the face he was expecting never came, there was only a careless, violent carshing of shoulder against shoulder that sent Ciro reeling into the table where money where being counted, almost causing one of the piles of greasy and crumpled bills to collapse.

-Malammò! - roared Gennaro, completely ignoring Ciro like he hadn't just almost cracked his collar bone, advancing even deeper into the belly of the abandoned building used as a deposit and disappearing from everyone's sight, leaving behind his confused men and a cloud of pricey cologne mixed with rage.  
  
-He's pretty pissed, uh, bro'?- Cardillo said, approaching a shaken Ciro and helping him to his feet. -What's gotten into him?- he asked, rubbing his sore hip.

-Fuck if I know? - the boy exclaimed, - One moment he was normal ... that is, pissed off, but normal. Then Branka and that Bulgarian guy started talking and he said, like, that when he goes back to Spain he wants to bring home a "souvenir". Or something like that.-  
  
\- A souvenir?- asked Ciro, taking out a packet of fags and offering one to the youngster.  
  
-Eh- nodded 'o Cardillo leaning on an old battered sofa and accepting the cigarette, -Yeah, dunno, you don't understand much when he speaks, that one. Anyway, Genny went apeshit!- he went on rolling his dull cow eyes with an incredulous laugh, his vaguely fish like face illuminated by the falme Ciro had just produced to light up their smokes. -It was like crazy people! Who knows what's got into him?-  
  
Yeah, thought Ciro, lighting one for himself in turn, who knew what got into him.

 

 

  _to be continued..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again with the animal imagery.  
> Mladen totally is a Czechoslovakian Wolfdog and Genny a Rottie... Why do you think I choose that breed for Ultimo Tango? They were obviously a Genny stand-ins. Not featured, Enzo the Corgi.  
> And they all are in love with kitty!Ciro, who is just one of those strays (a gray tabby) that likes playing hard to get, mewing and chirping at you, throwing themselves on the ground and then just clawing your fingers off when you are two pets in because they had enough, thank you very much (so yes, Ciro is totally modelled after my neighbours' cat, she is not a stray but she behaves just like that, that cute bitchy thing).


	6. V

_V._

 

 

At eight o'clock in the morning, after an almost sleepless night discussing tenders, the noise of the mixer was like a file being stuck in his brain, but Gennaro wasn't going to flush all his efforts down the toilet and go back at being the lazy son of a bitch he used to be. He was a new man, a better man. A _real_ man. There was nothing soft or sweet in his life, now, not even breakfast, he decided throwing a whole grapefruit in, peel included, and pressing the ON button splattering the whole thing against the clear plastic of the jar.  
  
If there had ever been a moment when he ought not to let himself go and relax, it was just this one. He couldn't give in to his nerves even if it felt like that bastard had soldered them to a 220V line. It wasn't something Ciro was doing, to make him suspicious and his bile rise every time he saw him, it was rather something he no longer did that was setting his teeth on edge.

After he had came back from Honduras, determined to show everyone - to some more than to others, to be perfectly honest - what he was made of, the Immortal had immediately tried to return in his good graces. First with gentle coaxing, then with guilt, reminding him of what he had done for him through the years, and in the end, when even that tactic had failed, doing everything in his power to provoke him and make him lose control, trying to show everyone that Gennaro Savastano wasn't changed at all and without him, the Immortal, he was at best useless and at worst dangerous.  
  
But now? Ciro wasn't doing anything, now. Every order was executed without a word, the complaints about his _de facto_ demotion completely ceased, in short, it was as if he didn't care anymore. Like someone who had made up their mind about quitting a job they hated and suddenly realize that getting angry is pointless, with the end in sight.  
  
No, Gennaro told himself, it just wasn't possible that the bastard was planning to relocate his ass to another country. What was he going to do with Deborah? Had she agreed? And what about their daughter? Would he take them with him or leave them parked here in Naples? Maybe with that pint-sized flunky Rosario, that didn't even know how to tie his shoes, without Ciro holding his hands.

And to do what, in Spain? Work for Conte after he set fire to the house of that bigoted mummy of his mother? Or maybe he was planning on replacing that half-Russian slut and become the kept man of that Bulgarian shit-head. What's the point in making money by risking your neck when you can do it by sucking cock?  
  
The knife he was using to clean the pineapple fell on the chopping board followed by a curse. He had to stay calm, he repeated to himself, bringing his bleeding thumb to his lips, tasting iron and fruit on his tongue, the blend of blood and exotic fruit almost enough to make him lose his appetite and bring back some unpleasant postcards from his South American trip.

 

 

Yeah, keep calm, my ass! He thought, clenching his teeth so hard that they hurt. It was Conte's birthday and apart from the ugliest trans she had ever seen, intent on shrieking one dull song after another, a pretty decent party considered it had been organized by such a Bible-humping Holy Joe. Too bad that Gennaro was trapped once again in the boring side of the room, while someone else was having fun just a table over. Who were these two assholes trying to sell that bullshit to?  
  
Mladen had started the evening at his same table, with all the other big shots, all of whom seemed strangely fascinated by the bass of his accent and the bizarre fashion sense. Who else would have showed up at a dinner in May with a fur coat? All those Neapolitan criminals had turned out to be as curious as old ladies overwhelming him with questions and Mladen hadn't been shy with the details. He had been talking for hours about his girls, his clubs and his wrestling titles, the only "real men" sport according to him, this last bit carelessly thrown out while looking Genny straight in the eyes.  
  
Gennaro had almost started to foam at the mouth when Mladen had showed off his most impressive scars among the sighs of the bosses' wives present and opened his coat to reveal a startling collection of tattoos, taking the time to explain the meaning behind of each one of them. The young boss had felt especially aggravated when he had noticed those beastly eyes darting sideways to another table, to see if anyone else was admiring all the goods on display.

Now that his Italian had significantly improved he no longer needed his flashy interpreter, so he must have felt alone, judging by where his looks were directed, mused Genny with a disgusted grimace, his eyes going too to the table where Ciro seemed to be entertaining a brilliant conversation with a boy sporting a cunning smile, lots of freckles and a shirt with a floral print that suited him oddly well.  
  
As soon as the last of the first course had been served and the attendees had been given a breather before starting the _tour de force_ of the seconds, almost all the guests had taken advantage of it to get up to stretch their legs, mingle, and Mladen had not delayed in following their example.  
  
He had not even pretended to happen at that table by chance, with a smile and a wave of his hand he had motioned up and away the few still seated down and then thrown himself into the chair newly vacated by the boy in the flower-print shirt, right beside to the last original occupant of the table to not to have risen.  
  
They must have been talking about something very serious, seeing how Mladen's mouth was one centimeter away from from slipping his tongue in Ciro's ear, thought Gennaro as he dragged the handle of the knife on the tablecloth so hard he was sure he left a permanent groove on the underlying wood. Didn't they have even a shred of shame left?

 

He watched the Bulgarian's hand hang first on the backrest of the other man's chair, virtually encircling his shoulders with one arm, marking the territory, as if to say that that chair and what it contained were his in a not too blatant move, but then when the hand left the back and disappeared under the table Genny couldn't stand it anymore. He got up in the most composed way he could manage and headed for the bathrooms. It had not been so much for that hand that he was sure now, was grasping soft, warm flesh, but it was rather the reaction of the one who had been touched by said hand to have caused his sudden escape. The way Ciro had tilted his head to the side, delicate, modest, shy almost, showing the amber skin of his throat. How he had opened his mouth, revealing those slightly buckish incisors that Gennaro, in the most ignored recess of his brain, found strangely endearing.  
  
He would have preferred to see anger, fear and revulsion on Ciro's face a thousand times over. He would have preferred that a simple rape had taken place that night in Spain. Accepting that would have been so much easier for him.

 

 

He wished he could have said that the proverbial straw that had broken the camel's back had been some act of unspeakable wickedness, a lack of respect so profound and blatant as to leave him no choice and to justify what Gennaro would have done less than an hour from that moment. The truth was that it had been Track's fault, as usual.  
  
\- Oh bro', remember that kid? What happened to him? What was his name... The mechanic? -  
  
\- Who? Danielino? -  
  
\- Uhu! -  
  
\- And the fuck do I know... Maybe, after Capa trashed Ciro's motorbike, kid got scared shitless and run for the hills! -  
  
\- That motorcycle was a motherfucking missile! -  
  
\- Yeah, that ride too is nowhere to be seen as well... -  
  
\- Of course, after that shithead who doesn't even know how to ride my lil sis' trycicle smashed it! -  
  
\- Oih, fucking asshole, watch your tongue! Want me to do some real smashing on your ugly mug? -  
  
\- Shut the fuck up! -  
  
\- Pff... what a bunch of retards, you are. Guy sold it. Now he's going to Spain, what the fuck would he do with that piece of junk? -  
  
\- Who's that is going to Spain? Ciro? -  
  
\- Uhu! -  
  
\- Wha'? The fuck you talking about?-  
  
\- What the fuck did you just say, asshole? -  
  
\- Oh Ge ', did you know that? -  
  
\- I heard it too, my uncle told me. He says he has already bought himself the ticket. -  
  
\- It's because of that fucker, the Russian... He asked him to work for him and he accepted. And you can bet your ass he did, he has a hard-on this big for that idio-! -  
  
Track found himself on the ground so quickly that his cheek touched the asphalt before the tooth, that Gennaro had just made his spit out with his punch, did.  
  
\- Genny, what the fuck? You crazy, man? - Cardillo exclaimed jumping up, trying to grab the young boss by the arm to stop him, after a muffled and trembling "Ugh ... son of a bitch..." muttered from behind a bloody hand had cost a mean kick to the ribs to the boy already writhing on the dusty ground.  
  
Deaf to the noise and shouts trailing in his wake, Gennaro walked without saying a word to the car parked in the middle of what should have been a basketball court and was nothing but a junkyard.  
  
\- Gennà! Where are you going?? Gennà, oh! ... Aw, shit man! How the fuck are we supposed to go back home, now? - asked 'o Cardillo to the car that had just revved away in a cloud of dust and sunhine.

 

 

 

_to be continued..._   
  


 


	7. VI

_VI._

 

 

 It hadn't taken Genny much time to find Mladen's lair in Neaples and it had taken him even less to be received just like that, without warning nor invitation.

That piece of shit felt so untouchable that, apart from him and the women he always had following him around, there were only two armed guards in the sun-drenched inner courtyard. Two pasty Frankenstein-looking motherfuckers, dressed in black and worried more about the boxing match showing on the TV in the living room, than checking out who the guy with the mohawk and the grim face, who had just entered their boss's house, was.

Well, good for him, Gennaro thought, seeing that he himself hadn't even thought of taking someone with him to watch his back.  
  
\- _Geny_ , welcome! - Exclaimed Mladen, opening his arms and showing two rows of yellowish cigar-smoker's teeth. Gennaro didn't bother to point out to him that his name had two Ns in it, he just watched the other man stay where he was, lying in the sun like the disgusting reptile he was.  
  
\- Where you feeling lonely, perhaps? - Mladen asked him mockingly, accepting a drink from Viola and pointing to two Slav twin blow-up-dolls, all peroxide-blond and silicone, parked on two sunbeds by the pool. - I lend you one, if you want. Or two! - he laughed, making the muscles of his abdomen contract in sharp relief, emphasized by the oil his translator was spreading all over him.  
  
\- So, going back to Spain soon, are ya'? - Genny began in the most neutral tone he managed to squeeze out of his throat. There was no need to alert the two still-distracted bean-poles with eyes glued to the 75'' screen. -What's the matter? Don't you like it here anymore? -  
  
\- No, no my friend! Your beautiful country, I like it.- Mladen replied promptly, lazily getting up from his deckchair. - So many interesting things and ideas to take home, yes? -  
  
\- Something in particular?- asked Gennaro through gritted teeth.  
  
The Bulgarian limited himself to bend the corners of his mouth and raise one oh his square shoulders, advancing slowly and indolently towards him. - Oh, a little bit of this, a little of that ... You know, some things are better in other places. -

By now he was so close that Gennaro could see his contracted expression reflected in Mladen's mirrored shades and smell the sweet smell of sun oil mixed with the nauseating stench of Cubans. - With other people with ... firmer hands and bigger plans, yes? -  
  
Gennaro felt a muscle in his jaw twitch violently, he wouldn't have been able to talk even had he wanted to, he just raised his chin to look that smug asshole down his nose. He wasn't much taller than Mladen himself, but Gennaro was going to make every single centimeter count.

He had never hated anyone this much before. Every single thing about the other man irritated him, his aquiline nose, his always-tense eyes, his slicked back hair ... The more he looked at him, the more he felt control slipping from his hands.

This asshole was laughing right in his face! He had no idea what Gennaro Savastano could do, what he had already done, not too long ago. Maybe in Bumfuck Nowheresville, where he came from, the dude was some kind of big shot, a "champion", but he wasn't worth shit here.

Here _he_ was king.

 

\- Oh, _mi amor_ , - sighed Viola as she leaned her chin on Mladen's shoulder, - I think Genny looks _un poco_ _celoso_. -

The woman passed one of her sharp claws on her lip, curved in a smile of false compassion and sympathy. - _Ревнив_? - asked Mladen with an amused grin, thrown over his shoulder at the voluptuous perched on it like some skanky Bird-of-paradise.  
  
\- _Ревнив, да._ \- the woman echoed him, passing her hand over his muscular chest.  
  
\- _Yo credo_ \- continued Viola, switching back to something that Gennaro could actually understand, - that Genny thinks you _quieres llevarte a España contigo_

our ... Common friend, Ciro.- then, in a hiss, a spark of sadistic joy lightening up her black-lined gaze, - _Te gustarìa saber còmo grita cuando the follan?_ -  
  
\- _Càllate, perra_! - he growled in her face, feeling himself flush.

He already knew how he sounded. Even though he had only seen it once, every moment of that video was branded in memory. Every sound, every detail, both those that he jealously guarded in the most secret corner of his brain, like the coffee-colored birthmark that Ciro had on the upper part of the back of his left thigh, just below his ass, and those he would have gladly done without , like the knowledge that under those obscenely tight Speedo he was wearing, Mladen didn't have an inch of body hair.  
  
\- Enough, Viola. - interrupted them the other man in a mocking tone, - I don't see where the problem is. Ciro is clever, with good brain - he went on, raising his sunglasses and tapping his temple with index, - He is looking for a strong boss, which gives so many opportunities.-  
  
\- Oh, yeah? - Gennaro asked advancing on them more and more, so close that he could have bitten Mladen's face off had he wanted to. - And would you be the strong one? You are not worth a shit, you are just the parasite that hitched a ride off of that bastard Conte's back. -  
  
The Bulgarian did not seem to get upset, he merely grinned.

\- He has already chosen once, perhaps here in this _лайна_ city you command - he said, cold eyes traveling from his face all the way down to his feet, as if he was being weighed, measured and, in the end, found wanting, - but he doesn't know what to do of a fat little kid. -  
  
In his life Gennaro Savastano had received every kind of insult in every possible permutation of tone, but that one ... That one had been the worst.

He let Mladen turn and leave him there, as if he had lost all interest in him. As if Gennaro was not someone to fear, as if it was not unwise to turn his back on him. Well, he was wrong.

Dead wrong.  
  
Taking a step to the side was enough for him to grab one of the two blonde bimbos heading for the bar and use her as a meat-shield, while pulling the 45 caliber from behind his back. The two thugs at the back of the courtyard had hardly been able to open their jackets to reach the holsters that Gennaro had already emptied half a magazine onto them.

A stream of blood from the woman he held with one arm around her neck splashed in his face, ruining his aim, but at least she had stopped squirming and screaming.

He stopped firing only when the trigger started to shoot empty, only then did he drop the dead weight he still held in his arms at his feet and ran a hand to remove from his face some of the sticky, salty blood blinding his left eye and take all in. The scene before his eyes a gorily satisfying one.

The two guards dressed in black were dead, half the entrails of one of them smeared all over the wall like some kind of pop-art nightmare.

Even that fucking snake, Viola, was dead.

He wasn't sure if it had been him the one who got her, since one of the two men had managed to respond to the fire and it was not clear where the shot that had blown her face off had been exploded, whether from the back of the head to the face or from the face towards the nape of the neck.

The only sounds were from the still living twin, huddled with her arms around her head between an overturned table and a large earthenware vase, the shadow of the dwarf palm that it held casting a shadow over her sobbing, top-less form.

 

Mladen, to be fair, had got it worse of all.

 

He was still alive, lying on the ground screaming and holding his wounded leg. - _Кучи син, ще те убия!_ \- he cursed, pale face disfigured by pain and rage. No longer so handsome now, was he?

Genny had another full magazine in his leather jacket, but he didn't take it, instead he grabbed his gun, heavy and silver, by the barrel, stepped over the lifeless body of his human shield and advanced towards the wounded man writhing on the ground.  
  
All his wrestling champion titles were of no use to him when Gennaro closed one of his hands around his throat, while with the other he brought down the gun on his skull like he would have done with a meat cleaver. Four blows were enough to kill him, even though it took at least another four to make him stop twitching.  
  
He felt strangely calm when he took a knee to wash his face and hands in the pool water smelling of chlorine, then drying himself with a leopard-print beach towel greasy with sunscreen recovered from a nearby sunbed.  
  
It was obvious that he had just blown the peace with Conte, yet Gennaro was not worried at all. Quite the contrary, in fact. For the first time in weeks he felt calm, focused, in control of the situation again.

 

Before leaving he finished fixing his hair and checked in the reflection of the glass door that the blood stains on the blue dress-shirt he was wearing were well hidden under his black leather jacket, he then took out the empty magazine and replaced it with the full one, the sound it made clicking in place strangely loud in the silence of the courtyard, crowded with corpses, the calm broken only by the muffled sound of the television broadcasting some inane gum commercial and the hysterical, pleading babbling of the blonde hooker now scrambling back against a column.  
  
He was almost ready to make war on that pint-sized sack of shit and bury him for good, there were only a couple of _details_ left to arrange.

The first one was silenced with a bullet to her forehead as she tried to escape towards the exit, the second, he was sure was going to hand himself over to him of his own free will as soon as he would receive word of the fucking bloodbath he had just made.  
  
He just could not wait.

 

 

_to be continued..._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there, girls, almost there...
> 
> Kudos to anyone who'll get the movie quote from one of my favourite movies from the early 2000s in this chapter.


	8. VII

_VII._

 

 

It was almost six o'clock in the evening when Ciro stormed like a fury into the slot hall, Genny and his little pals' cramped hide out, constantly permeated by the smell of cheap beer and pot. And here they were, sprawled on the white vinyl sofa in the back room, Gennaro right in the middle of the semicircle with his arms stretched out along the curving backrest and his feet resting on the mirrored coffee table in front of him. His face stolid and impassive as usual, as if he had not a single problem in the world and was simply happy to let the load of crap coming out of his lackeys roll off of him. As if he hadn't just blown the peace with Conte that Ciro had risked his neck for at least four times, as if he hadn't just killed a _mutra_ part of the _Organizacija_ along with all his entourage.  
  
-Have you lost your fucking mind?- shouted Ciro as soon as he was less than a meter from the couch. -Do you know what the hell you did?-  
  
Genny, unlike the rest of those present all looking at Ciro with eyes bulging out in terrified disbelief, did not even seem to hear him, not even bothering to turn his head towards the older man, choosing instead to keep staring into the void in front of him.  
  
-Oh! Are you listening to me?- Ciro asked, so beside himself that he almost stepped on Capa 'e Bomba in the frantic attempt to reach Genny inside the couch circle and force him to pay attention to him. He didn't think twice about grabbing his knee and dropping one of the young boss' feet off the table to place himself between his spread thighs, right in front of him. Whether Gennaro wanted it or not he _had_ to look at him, now.  
  
-Oh, Ci'!- breathed out Cardillo in a flabbergasted gasp jumping to his feet, followed by a belligerent-looking Track.  
  
Gennaro's voice, though not rising a decibel beyond normal, sounded like a gun shot in the neon twilight of the room. -Out- he said without moving a single muscle, certain that he was going to be obeyed without question. And that was just what happened, one after the other his men got up, some looking relieved, some throwing shades at Ciro, but all of them without uttering a single word of protest.

 

-What's the problem?- asked the younger man with a tone between curious and menacing, his large hands clenching around the edge of the backrest to get up in a crunch of leather and buckles. If Ciro had wanted his attention now he had it.  
  
- _What's the problem_?- parroted Ciro in a tone of mocking disbelief, - You know damn well what the problem is! You killed Conte's ally!-  
  
-Ah, _that_ 's the problem? That he was with Conte ... Or that I brained the guy that was fucking you?-  
  
-What?- Ciro asked in a whisper, eyes wide open, -I don't know wha...-  
  
-Ah, you don't know, mh?- growled Genny, grabbing him by the collar and making him back out of the embrace of the sofa, until Ciro found his back slammed against the reels of one of the slot machines. All the apparent calm that he had flaunted up to that point evaporated as ethyl alcohol in the open air. -I'll explain it to you, then! I know what you were doing with that Bulgarian son of a bitch in Spain! That's how you made that peace deal with Conte, eh?-  
  
-No, I ...- gasped Ciro, his face now lit only by the blue neon lining the ceiling, the cold light able to hide his pallor and, at the same time, underline the sweat that beaded his upper lip. -I had one of my man follow you that day that dickhead Russo gave you the present of that sack of shit. And guess what else was in there besides the watch!-  
  
Ciro swallowed, seemed to hold his breath for a moment, then lifted his chin like someone who has came to term with the fact that the decision he made is the most stupid but also the only one that's worth it. -Yeah- grinded out Genny, eyes following Ciro run his tongue nervously over dry lips, -When you throw away something of value there is always someone ready to pick it up.- The grip around Ciro's collar became tighter, almost asphyxiating while Gennaro's arms contracted making their bodies crash for a moment before returning to push it away violently by planting the edge of the slot in his spine.  
  
-Shut the fuck up! Do you think I'm an idiot?- he shouted, shaking Ciro again, this time with such force that he slammed the back of his head against the illuminated screen behind him spitting out the little air that was left in his lungs.  
  
-You think I don't know you wanted to go back to Spain with that looser and leave me here like some idiotic asshole?-  
  
-No!- exploded Ciro, grabbing the other man's wrists to try and loosen his grip, -You don't understand shit!- he added lowering his voice and nearing their faces, his eyes huge and, although Gennaro knew them to be green, black as pitch, -I've already told you, Genna'- he said almost in a whisper, as if he didn't want to disturb the perpetual night of a gambling den, -The place I want is at your side.-

 

And he didn't add that _that_ was the last time he was going to tell him, the last call, because Genny knew that after Mladen there would be another man, and then another one yet again. All of them ready to give this man, who had never had anything in his life, all he was convinced he had always deserved. On the plate Ciro di Marzio put all of himself, soul, mind and body, the foundation on which to build an Empire, make a King, in exchange he only asked for everything.  
  
-Tell me he forced you- whispered Gennaro against his mouth, now that his hands had left the collar of his shirt in favor of the sharp edges of Ciro's face. Give me an excuse to forgive you, was the implicit and supplicated message.  
  
-Is it so important to you?- was Ciro's answer, his eyes becoming distant, sad, perhaps. -Tell me that it was disgusting.- pushed on Genny undaunted, closing his eyes and crushing the older man against the slot machine at his back, yet again with violence but one of a different kind. Ciro could feel Genny's breath, warm and wet, on his face and his lips open in an almost-sigh touch his own but never with true intent behind them, just like someone who has decided to off themselves but without the proper balls to commit to it and leaves a thousand tentative marks on their wrist before sinking the blade in properly.  
  
-Yes- breathed out Ciro against the young boss' mouth, finally making up his mind and letting go of Gennaro's wrists to shift his hands on the other's heaving chest. -Yeah, you were right killing him. I would have liked to watch.-

 

Well, he had been in for a penny, might as well be in for the whole pound, right? It wasn't a real kiss, he just took Genny's bottom lip between his own, but it was more than enough, because when Ciro started to disengage the other followed his mouth with a hungry groan. Every time Ciro had thought of this moment, he had imagined Gennaro to be angry, fast and merciless and instead ... He felt a sweaty hand leave his face and slide down the jugular to the back of his neck and a hot tongue slip in the space between his front teeth and the inside of his upper lip, unleashing a tremor that ran along the whole length of his spine.  
  
When he felt the wet muscle retract, came back and, this time, crawl beyond the barrier of his teeth he wasted no time, he blocked the tongue with a sweet bite and then started sucking on it in a promise of something more to come. Propping himself forward with his feet, he let his chest come into contact with Genny's broader one, wincing when the zipper on his black leather jacket bit one of his nipples through the almost impalpable barrier of his shirt. To be honest Ciro would not have minded a little more ardor, but even if Gennaro was kissing him as someone else would lick pussy, all broad, deep swipes of the tongue and lots of saliva, he could not help but notice that the other man's hands were reluctant to descend beyond the line of his shoulders, as if they didn't know what to do with another man's flesh.  
  
He tried to reassure him without words, only with his caresses, touching Genny's neck and encircling it with both hands to show him how his fingers could not touch, running his palms over his shoulders to make him aware of their weight and their breadth, to make him feel like a man. Because it was a man, a real one, Ciro needed now, with a storm brewing on the horizon and new enemies coming forth from far away lands.  
  
It didn't take long for Genny to gain confidence and for his hands to begin to fall over the line of Ciro's shoulders, passing over the chest and hips and reaching the soft, full flesh of his thighs, gripping his as if he had waited for decades for it.  
  
He felt the rhythm of the younger man's breath increase more and more turning first to breathless and then to almost panicked. -What is it?- he asked when Gennaro suddenly broke away from his mouth, while continuing to keep him trapped against the slot with his whole body. -Nothing ...- he panted out, bowing his head and resting his forehead on Ciro's own.

 

Ciro followed his gaze down to the almost non-existent space between them. That had to hurt, he thought, looking at the full curve that swelled the front of Genny's pants, a bit of petting wasn't enough to put Ciro in a similar state, but it was also true that it had been almost a decade since he had been a man twenty-four years young, red blood and mean hormones making his flesh thrum at the slightest provocation.

He felt almost sorry for Genny.  
  
Ciro tried not to be too delicate when he ran his hands from Genny's shoulders to his groin, he didn't want him to feel like someone who had to be treated gently, coddled, but still he moved slowly enough for Gennaro to see what he was doing. He opened the first button of the jeans without problems, but reached the second he could already see the other's lips twist and his teeth clenched. It seemed like he would need some diversion tactics. He began to kiss him gently, first on the contracted corner of his mouth, then the dimple of his chin, then the edge of his jaw and all the way up to the emerald piercing Genny's lobe. Now he could get down to the real business, mused Ciro listening to Genny's delighted sighs.  
  
Every tooth of the zip coming loose was worth a kiss. So close to the side of the other man's face it didn't take long for Ciro to notice his ears going from a bright tone of red to an even more violent one. He was so happy Honduras hadn't robbed Genny of his ability to blush completely. He found it too cute and usefully telltale to make do without.

Leaning his head on his shoulder and pressing his forehead into the hollow of Gennaro's neck, Ciro looked down to his hands parting the flaps at the younger man's crotch. The other's boxers were so wet that it looked like someone had spilled a glass of hot molasses on Genny's lap. He could not control a murmur of appreciation when he lowered the other man's boxers and found out that he had not actually come yet. It was all extra and he liked extras, he though licking his lips. Too bad he was sure Genny would have bolted had he tried to suck him off. He had to be patient here, he could not risk scaring off his winning ticket by being too forward.  
  
-We don't have much time, Genna'- he said opening his own pants as well and, while he had unfastened Gennaro jeans just enough to pull his dick out, he lowered his own almost to the middle of his femur.  
  
-Like this ...- he breathed out in a sigh, taking the other man's cock in his hand and pushing it gently into the snug space between his closed thighs, just below his testicles.

 

He was shy in the beginning, almost embarrassed, but it didn't take long for Gennaro to increase the rhythm of his thrusts, spurred on by the increasingly wet noises that came from between his legs. It wasn't exactly like getting a handjob, thought Ciro, holding on to the younger man's neck, eyelids fluttering and breath panting, but still it was definitely nice to feel that fat, heavy cock push past his balls, slide along his perineum and almost come into contact with his hole. A "shorter" man would not have made it. That size should have made him feel intimidated, especially in light of what would eventually follow if his plan was to succeeded, but right now Ciro felt nothing but languorous satisfaction. Gennaro Savastano could not have been more perfect in his eyes, so plentiful and so malleable.   
  
-I'm almost there ...- he heard Genny mutter, eyes fixed on his dick disappearing and reappearing from between the wet flesh of his inner thighs, his face red and the front of his mohawk stuck with sweat to his dripping forehead.  
  
Ciro almost gave a startled jump when Gennaro took off his jacket with a violent shrug, revealing the dark patches of sweat that made his shirt clung to the skin of his back and sides. It was enough for Ciro to lick away a drop of sweat that had reached the profile of Genny's jaw and tighten his legs to make the other man come with a grunt, overstimulation making him pull out too soon, sending the last thick jets of spunk to land all over Ciro's lap. He felt Gennaro was trembling when the man leaned his forehead against one of Ciro's shoulders to look at him jerk himself to completion using the copious amount of semen dirtying his crotch as lubricant. The deep groan Ciro let out when he came in his own closed fist almost enough to cover Genny's awed -Fuck!- whispered against his collarbone. He had not wanted to touch but he sure as hell seemed to have appreciated the show, this boded well for Ciro's future sex life.   
  
-I wanted ...- began Gennaro, just to stop immediately to cleared his throat as if something were choking him. -Later- murmured Ciro, returning to kiss the dimple on Genny's chin and wiping his soiled hand against the back of a swivel stool beside them. He would have had as much time as he wanted as soon as they had finished organizing a counterattack to Conte's surely incoming strike, after all he had no intention of allowing Genny to ignore his dick for much longer.  
  
He didn't like the idea of having to miss that imaginative perv of Mladen, he thought, pulling up his pants and making a face as soon as he realized that almost all of that sticky mess, now cold, they had made had just ended up in his underpants. He took a mental note to get rid of everything before putting it to be washed and Deborah could get her hands on it.

-Want one?- asked him Genny from behind the counter at the side of the room, his jacket recovered from the floor under one muscly arm and a bottle of Beck's in his hand.

 

Ciro shook his head, running his hands over the pockets at the back of his trousers and pulling out a mangled packet of cigarettes. Damn, it was his last one, he thought, going towards Gennaro and throwing it listlessly on the counter in a shower of tobacco and paper confetti.  
-Here... - he heard the younger man say, handing him an almost new packet taken from who-knows-where, while simultaneously taking a swig of his beer. Ciro considered the package for a moment then, slowly, leaned over the counter and reached over to the bottle. Eyes in eyes, he took it from Gennaro's hands, cold and beaded with condensation, brought it to his mouth to take a drink and then letting the void created by his sip suck slightly on his tongue. He smiled when he saw Genny's eyes dilate and dash surreptitiously to look at his lips. He did not return the bottle to him and when Gennaro leaned towards him to take it back, he seized the opportunity to steal a kiss, bitter and sweet at the same time.  
  
-What about the cigarettes?- asked the young man softly, his lips an inch from Ciro's own. -I don't like that brand- he replied with a smug grin, raising the hand that was not occupied by the bottle to fiddle with the collar of the other man's shirt. He heard Genny give an amused huff against his jaw and then a hand snapped, swift and violent like a pitbull's bite, to grab him by the back of his neck, dragging him almost across the piece of furniture in front of him. - Ah, so you don't like it, mh? -  
  
Neither of them was smiling anymore. With a snap of his wrist, Gennaro opened the package, spreading its contents on the table, then still without taking his eyes from Ciro's own, he took one cigarette and brought it to the other man's lips. Index and middle lingered for a moment on Ciro's bottom lip, dragging it downward, and letting his lower incisors peek out from behind his kiss-swollen mouth.   
  
-No- whispered huskily Ciro, -But they'll do for now.-  
  


 

_the end._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, it's done. Finally. I'll be honest, I didn't really bother with spell and grammar checking too much, I just wanted to finish this joyless translation slog.
> 
> Thanks for reading this crap! _Alla prossima!_

**Author's Note:**

> Who is Mladen? [This](https://movieplayer.net-cdn.it/images/2017/11/23/_dsc7378.jpg) lovely gentleman from season 3... The Bulgarian boss' son who kept perving on the Albanian girls while staring Ciro in the eyes, asking him what he likes to do since he doesn't seem to like fucking or drinking... Yeah, that [smooth guy](https://movieplayer.net-cdn.it/images/2017/11/23/_dsc7453.jpg) .


End file.
